


Love, Jockstraps, and Other Mishaps

by cathouse_mary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkwardness, Banter, Bondage, Dominance, M/M, Mind Games, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>School behind them, but not their obsessions, Harry and Draco try to make their way in the world and navigate the complications they present each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Jockstraps, and Other Mishaps

**Author's Note:**

> 


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:**   
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content  
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**Entry tags:**   
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[fest](http://cathouse-mary.livejournal.com/tag/fest), [fic](http://cathouse-mary.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [hp_yule_balls](http://cathouse-mary.livejournal.com/tag/hp_yule_balls)  
  
  
_**FIC: Love, Jockstraps, and Other Mishaps (Harry/Draco)**_  
Written For: [](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_yule_balls/profile)[ **hp_yule_balls**](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_yule_balls/)  2010  
Recipient: [](http://khasael.livejournal.com/profile)[ **khasael**](http://khasael.livejournal.com/)   
Title: Love, Jockstraps, and Other Mishaps  
Rating: NC-17  
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco  
Summary: School behind them, but not their obsessions, Harry and Draco try to make their way in the world and navigate the complications they present each other.  
Warnings: Some bondage, mild mindfuck.  
Word Count: 4,563  
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.  
Author's Notes:

  

  * Dear [](http://khasael.livejournal.com/profile)[ **khasael**](http://khasael.livejournal.com/) , I hope that you like the story and that I was able to hit many of your happy spots. Have a good Yule and a wonderful 2011!
  

  * With many, many thanks and headbutts to [](http://atdelphi.livejournal.com/profile)[ **atdelphi**](http://atdelphi.livejournal.com/)  for her mad beta skillz - there wouldn't be a story without you.
  



Love, Jockstraps and Other Mishaps

~

  
It was a given that anything involving both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would sooner or later result in clusterfuckery beyond Sod's Law's most pessimistic assay. Hence, when forming interdepartmental Quidditch teams to promote greater morale what was in fact assured was that the deity of one's choice would laugh.

  
Hard.

  
What the well-intentioned creators of this picturesque ideal had intended was wholesome sportspersonship and competition between departments, showcasing a lively and 'with it' Ministry. What they actually engendered was instead a picaresque and prompt disinterring of hatchets followed by frankly unsportpersonlike attempts to reinter the hatchets in ways less than wholesome and utterly unsuited for a family audience. The Second War and revamping of Wizarding government had not smoothed over all differences as much as immured them whole, kicking, and fairly well shouting "For the love of God, Montresor!"

  
House rivalry had nothing on, say, the rivalry between the Office of Misinformation and the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. That particular match ended up being called on account of all players in the first and second strings of both teams sending each other to hospital to have body parts put back into original positions on the original owners of same. By comparison, the match between the Auror Office and the Courts Office of the Wizengamot should have been as smooth as – say - the course of true love.

  
And true to nature, it was.

  
~

  
"Fuck you, Malfoy!" Harry lunged, hands out, lurching to a stop as he was grabbed from behind.

  
"Really, Potter." Malfoy rolled his eyes as two strapping referees kept hold of Harry by belt and collar of his rain-soaked Quidditch robes. "No flowers? A Honeydukes' box? Not even a bag of take-away from Lee Ho Fook's? You do need to elevate your liaising technique." The pointy-faced ponce smirked, and Harry could just see the next barb being honed. "Or are you asking for a pity fuck since you and your aurors lost so dismally?"

  
"Not on your best day, Malfoy." Not that it had been his best day. The Courties showed up with beefy bailiff Beaters and Malfoy as Seeker, then all went merrily to hell from there. It had been dismal, despite his warning to the whole team about being overconfident, that a bunch of peruke-wearing boffins from courts could kick their asses handily. And they had. Malfoy had not even tried any of his usual ploys.

  
"Well, you're right. It certainly was one of those." The snitch fluttered in Malfoy's hand, and he had the temerity to give it a kiss. "You've slowed down, Potty - or have you just become accustomed to that bed of laurels?"

  
Three years after school and Malfoy could still piss him off. "Get bent."

  
Malfoy chortled like a firstie with a whole box of assorted Wizard Wheezes and a Cunning Plan. "That, Potter, is going to be the best part of my day. Toodles!"

  
~

  
Had he actually said…

  
"Toodles?"

  
Yes, as a matter of fact, he had.

  
Potter just seemed to bring out the bratty best in him, or the worst, depending on whose point of view. There were times when the sheer thrill of taunting The Prat Who Continued to Live was something close to sexual… no, not close, it was sexual. Draco loved it, honestly. It was a sweet, visceral thrill to make Potter lose it, to make him acknowledge the loss, for Draco to tot it up on a scoreboard in the privacy of his head and just bloody wallow in a well-earned gloat. Potter might have made peace with being part of the Ministry We're-All-Together-Now dumb-show, but Draco regarded it all with a jaded eye and a sneer.

  
The Senior Counsellor said that Draco had developed the prosecutorial cynicism entirely too young, but considering his history… well.

  
Still, it had been a fine, fine day despite the bucketing down rain. Draco hated being wet and cold, but for months this match had been the linchpin on which his entire November turned. He'd picked the two most strapping bailiffs he could find, and put twenty-some prospective Chasers though the wringer to find three and their reliefs, and the Keeper was a retired Ballycastle man. Granted, Potter was reputedly as obsessive and merciless in practice as himself, but Draco was going to have his score evened just a bit if it killed him.

  
Instead, the match had been an utter, unmitigated, exquisite, glorious rout. Draco had eaten harder candy floss. Potter's aurors came in with swaggering overconfidence, and within a scant three hours the aurors' second string of Chasers had been a-broom as Weasley was being carted off to St. Mungo's. Potter could not have been more stunned. Then there was the snitch, which had not liked the rain at all and had tucked itself away under the stands. It had not been a cheat, not even Potter had been able to say it had been – but only when pressed by the referee. This was true to form, for a Gryffindor would never admit shortcoming.

  
The wet slap-slap of his robes accompanied Draco down the chill corridor to the changing rooms, but nothing could dull the warm cheer in his heart. The 'pity fuck' barb was the cherry on a Fortescue's sundae of accrued victories today. How could the aurors have blown it as badly as they did? If they had tried to lose, they could not have done better – not that Draco thought that they threw the game. At the medical break for Weasley, Potter had been desperately in danger of an aneurysm, shouting with his neck corded and a vein pulsing in the middle of his forehead. It made a lovely picture for his mental wallet.

  
Life was good.

  
And Draco found himself surprised that he could admit that. The Malfoy familial properties were largely intact, having come to him at birth. Father's personal fortune was attached by the Ministry for reparations, but Mummy's inheritance supported them both handsomely in Costa Rica. Draco's decision to read the law had not gone over well with his parents, or for that matter in the Wizarding world, but Draco had made his own place at the Inns of Court and fully expected to be called to the Bar once his clerkship and reading were done. That would be soon, for he was already allowed to assist before the Wizengamot in certain cases.

  
Best of all, nobody could bring his father's name into any of it. Everything he had made since leaving school, he had made for himself despite his familial notoriety. It was his own competence and his own hard work and… oh, Lord above.

  
"I sound like a Hufflepuff," he muttered, kicking open the door to the locker-room.

  
To be fair to his former House, there had also been the cultivated Slytherin instinct for opportunity. If you had to wait until it came knocking, you were a dullard and that was that. Though, if you were Potter, it was better than likely that you had Opportunity beating on your door at all hours, calling you on the floo incessantly to grovel and offer blow-jobs.

  
Perhaps it was just as well he was up Potty's nose so often; he needed someone to keep him humble.

  
The lockers were blessedly empty, the scent of steam, sweat and liniment hanging in the air as he stripped off his sodden robe, leathers and riding breeches, down to his base layers. He couldn't have been more soaked than if they'd played the match in the North Sea – even his socks and athletic support joined the pile of soaked clothing.

  
"Accio towel." He flipped it over his shoulder and picked up his kit. A hot shower would put him right and would be right in keeping with the next item on the agenda – getting bent.

  
Winning made Draco randy, and Potter was likely going to sulk for England and avoid him for weeks. Whilst the occasional bout of frenetic buggery did not a relationship make, it seemed that the only victories Potter wished to celebrate were his own. It was a bother, as Draco fancied that Potter might be a little sick of being a puppet for every Junior Assistant Under Minister's Secretary's Teaboy, getting an agenda-holding hand up his arse without so much as a please or thank you. Heaven only knew that Draco had been heartily sick of the same thing when he could still be called his father's son. Still, if one could not depend on someone just as buggered up as oneself to occasionally make it a rollicking good bang with as many bites as kisses, what could one depend on?

  
Selfish? Yes. Care? No. Anything else came too close to thoughts Draco did not wish to examine too closely.

  
~

  
By the time Harry had cooled his temper, he was ready to crank it up again in anger at himself. He was a full-ranked bloody auror and not some idiot kid, though he'd certainly made himself look like one. Malfoy had spotted the snitch fair and square and nipped it up before Harry could get a grasp on just what had happened. Harry flushed and shifted his shoulders under the weight of cold, wet robes.

  
He'd been a prat. Even Ginny'd read him off, and she was the Harpies' first string. Malfoy and the Courts team had won because they'd practiced, because they'd played a bloody brilliant strategy. And because Malfoy'd had his eyes open. There was just something in their interactions that was always going to be like putting out a fire with petrol. They provoked each other, set each other on as they had in school – and there was no excuse for it. They were grown men and should be able to move beyond that. Certainly Harry and Dudley had managed a peace of their own making – and Malfoy on his worst day had not been half the arsewipe that Dudley had been.

  
Though Harry had never fucked Dudders, he had fucked Malfoy. More than once. And Malfoy had fucked him. More than once. Both of which complicated things greatly.

  
Neither of them had chosen their circumstances then, he'd just acted within them, and Malfoy'd done the same… and had done all right since then, actually.

  
Now Harry was on the horns of that dread dilemma. He could suck it up and apologise, and Malfoy would bristle and spit out that he didn't need any Gryffindolt noblesse oblige, and Harry would call him a toff prick or something of the sort and-

  
He kicked open the door to the locker-room and stormed in, already at full boil over something that hadn't even bloody happened. Christ on a cracker, Malfoy pissed him off without even being here! Worse, he had no idea who was the bigger prat – though he suspected that if there was a prat here, it was him. Running his fingers through his hair, he banished Malfoy and the rest of today from his mind. The room was as thick with steam as a Turkish bath, which meant that he'd not have to wait for the ancient water heater to warm up. There was some good in the day, he thought as he stripped off and wrapped his towel around his waist. Hot water was a marvellous leveller for the mind. A little warming up and he could go apologise to Malfoy, and to Ginny, and to… well, pretty much everyone he'd spoken with since nine this morning, when he thought about it. Hanging his towel, Harry stepped into the showers and groped for the valve.

  
~

  
Head under the cascading water, Draco could hear nothing but the drum of it on his skull, and feel the pressure of it on his neck and shoulders as he shifted. The tightness in his neck and shoulders loosened quickly enough to leave him gasping in relief. Had he really been wound so tightly? Shifting forward, he leaned against the wall on his hands, letting the water pound between his clavicles, sluice into the hollow of his back and run down his legs in an almost erotic abandon.

  
"So good. Mmm." Perhaps erotic was the operative word here, or at least the stiffening of his prick was a reminder that it had been a while since it had been accorded the company of something other than his hand. Perversely, Draco declined to give himself a stroke. He wanted some fucking, thanks. The pleasure of a private room and uninterrupted masturbation had palled as quickly as eating take-away every night. The bars did not suit him, being full of men lacking last names or anything in their heads but for what was in their pants.

  
The thought niggled at him that perhaps that was what kept him in a locked orbit with Potter. They might fight like bears, but there was something… satisfying there. Despite Potter being a colossal pain in the arse. Draco summoned the soap from his kit, giving himself a tsking. Potter was probably miles from here already, gone to ground and licking his wounds.

  
Draco slipped the sandalwood-scented soap over his skin, revelling in the slip and slide of it. His skin flushed from the heat of the water and the growing heat of lustful need, and he was aware only tangentially of someone else in the thick steam of the showers.

  
He didn't want some one-named bloke from a pub with only a cock, an arse, a mouth and an itch to scratch that might minimally recommend him. Draco wanted fire, passion, emotion. He wanted fingertip bruises on his hipbones and kisses and bites that were a fine line from trading places. He wanted to come hard, and loudly and often and make his partner do the same. It was wreck-the-bed fucking that he craved, with the linens twisted around spent bodies and the scents of drying sweat and semen funking the air. He wanted someone with scars like his and unseen marks that went to the bone, someone whose need was as raw as his own.

  
He was going to find Potter.

  
Then he was going to seduce him.

  
But before he could do that, he was going to wank for bloody England because he'd never get his trousers on otherwise.

  
~

  
There had to be something in the Ministry penal code, Harry thought, about watching someone wanking unawares in the shower. It was too much like the left-handed literature sold in Bentshot Alley.

  
Malfoy bit his lip when he wanked. That pale skin flushed to a warm pink as he teased his ballocks and foreskin. Harry watched that and the play of wiry muscle under soapslicked skin. If there were a porn magazine called 'Quidditch Twink' then Malfoy'd be the centerfold model right this second. Smooth and hard and God, biting his lip again.

  
And here he was, Harry James Potter, standing with a flannel in his hand and his jaw hanging and his prick as hard as his broomstick.

  
Yes, it was complicated. Whatever. Thinking was simply not on the roster right now.

  
Malfoy's head nodded forward, wet blond hair falling across his face and over his eyelids. Harry watched avidly, cataloguing the details like the play of water over Malfoy's skin, the way his toes curled when he took a big handful of crème rinse and stroked it over his prick, and the scent of his soap. Who was he seeing in the privacy of his mind? Who did he want to touch him?

  
Oh, GOD, but this was a bad idea. That was Harry's last thought as he dropped the flannel and stepped out of the steam, hands falling on Malfoy's shoulders, closing, pulling him backwards, pulling him close. Good sense was out the window here, and everything was going to be even more complicated and-

  
"Who were you seeing in that little ferrety mind of yours, Malfoy?" So close. Lips brushing his ear, pressing close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, close enough for Malfoy to feel his prick in the small of his back.

  
Malfoy opened his eyes, regarding Harry over his shoulder. "For someone who maintains he's not bent, Potter, you surely end up naked and screwing me a good deal more often than one ought."

  
"I'm not bent. Much. Only when you-" Harry tightened his grip on Malfoy's shoulders, giving him a shake and then pulling him closer. "Why can't you stay out of my life, Malfoy?" he murmured.

  
Malfoy snorted, pressing back into him. "You're not the only one with a life, Potter – why can't you stay out of mine?"

  
Because Malfoy wound him up and turned him loose in ways that nobody else ever had. "Prat."

  
"Blowhard." Malfoy twisted like a cat in his arms, and then they were pressed together, arms twining and pulling Harry close. "Shut the fuck up and kiss me, you idiot."

  
And he did.

  
It was hard and hot and wet, and Malfoy was hungry enough to eat him alive, but that was just fine because Harry kissed back, pushing in with his tongue, his hands unerringly able to get a grip on Malfoy's narrow arse and grind fuck yes grind them together in that handful of crème rinse. He couldn't stop this, wouldn't walk away from this, because Draco Malfoy was possibly the only person in this world as screwed up and screwed over as himself, the only one in his life who wouldn't demand that he be All Right, and Harry loved him for it.

  
When Malfoy wasn't being an utter brat bastard. Like now. Trying to boss from the bottom. Christ, but he could bottom.

  
"My gear's in my locker, so you'd best behave, Malfoy, or it's the cuffs for you." Harry pressed his back against the tiles. "I'll hang you from the shower head and shag your narrow arse until you're out of crème rinse." And judging from the bite to Harry's shoulder and the swift frottage of Malfoy's hips, he was right on target. "Accio handcuffs!"

  
~

  
Delicious. Hot. Likely unwise, but Draco didn't care.

  
When Potter went Cop Top on him, it made him weak in the thighs and the head. Up against the wall, cheek to the tiles, legs kicked apart and so hard that it was likely to break off.

  
"Always have to do things the hard way." A shiny steel cuff snicked around one wrist, smooth against his skin. "Turn around." Arm pulled high and the chain stretching to loop around the shower head. "Arm up."

  
Snick.

  
Lord, but Potter looked good. Lean and hard, wearing his scars like other men wore their Orders of Merlin. Crisp black hairs encircled his nipples and trailed down from his navel to a thatch of hair from which his prick rose at eleven o'clock. Draco loved to make him like this, a small matter of giving up control to gain control.

  
Potter's fingers trailed down his arms, across his chest and ribs, hands settling on his hips. "What am I going to do with you, Draco?" That managed to surprise him. They never used first names, but it sounded right. It sounded good.

  
Draco hummed. "First thing? Lock the door."

  
The locks tumbled, and Potter gave him a devilish look, summoning the dropped flannel to his hand. "Need it that bad, then?"

  
"Gagging for it." It was hard to talk over the heat inside him. "Crème rinse is in my kit."

  
"Metrosexual."

  
"Retrosexual." Draco retorted. "No fisting until you do something about those cuticles."

  
Instead, Potter picked up his soap and worked up a good lather with the flannel. "This stuff isn't subtle, Draco. What's it called - 'Come and Get It'?"

  
"It's from Penhaligon's – a respectable Jermyn Street establishment! What are you doing?" The flannel touched, then circled the hollow of his hip.

  
"Shh."

  
The soft rasp of cotton against his skin, and then Potter's other hand settled on his shoulder to steady him. Draco needed the steadying, as this had not even been on his mental list of things to expect from Potter. It wasn't a snapping of his bottom with the flannel, or a rough Cop Top cavity search, or an ersatz interrogation. This… solicitude rubbed against something scabbed and raw, something in him that flinched away, unprepared for the tenderness. This was nothing he could come back at, nothing for him to round upon and sink his claws into, no way to counterpunch – all he could do was gasp like a landed fish as Potter guided the flannel over his body, lingering over the sunken place where his Mark had once been, tracing the Hebridean Black dragon tattoo that had replaced it.

  
"What are you doing, Potter?" The flannel stroked down his thighs, brushing at his balls and sex, stoking the heat there. Across his arse, up his back with the same slow, patient motions, the same care that Draco did not want to show, to admit even in the privacy of his own head. Do anything to him, he could take it and walk off without a backward glance. Just not-

  
"Stop. Stop, please." He could stand anything but having to admit he cared. "Fuck me, Potter. Don't do this, just fuck me." The flannel stopped, Potter pressed against him so closely that Draco could feel his heart beating. "Just. Just-" Then Potter's were lips on his, and Draco felt that breaking sensation in his chest – clear and sharp – and had to marvel that he was so emotionally mutilated that he could endure anything but kindness, and that Potter knew him well enough now to break him with it.

  
~

  
He had never seen Draco weep, though Harry knew he must have.

  
What a twisted bastard he must be to drive Draco to it now.

  
But for all that, both of them were still hard – which made it even more twisted and even more hot. Harry deepened the kiss, fingers lacing in Draco's hair and pulling his head back. "Say my name."

  
"P-Potter."

  
"Draco." Making it a caress, stroking his prick. "That door is locked, and the cleaning crew doesn't come in until tomorrow morning. Say it."

  
The muscles in Draco's jaw bunched, and he shook his head. "Potter."

  
Harry picked up the flannel and soap again, tsking. "Harry." He couldn't say why it was so important, why he could not just slather a handful of crème rinse over his cock and fuck them both to panting oblivion, but he wanted to hear Draco say it. Had to hear him say it. Would break him with soap and kisses and caresses and his own name if it took all afternoon into night and night into morning. "You won't come until I hear you say it, Draco."

  
Harry wanted him, pouring that want into Draco's ear, touching him everywhere other than where he demanded to be touched. No reddening his arse, no twisting his nipples, no pulling on his foreskin – just inexorable gentleness. Denying him the fucking he pled for until Harry got that one little thing from him.

  
"Harry. It's not hard, Draco. Just say it. Say 'Fuck me, Harry.' and you can have it." He was going to die of blue balls, losing track of time as he worked Draco over, tasting the salt of tears and sweat as Draco twisted his wrists in the cuffs, making bruises rise on the pale skin.

  
"Harry." Whispered, half sobbed. "Harry, please."

  
Snick.

  
The cuffs opened, and Draco stumbled forward, Harry catching him before he could go face-first onto the shower room floor. "Shh. Got you now. Shh."

  
Draco's mouth sought his in blind desperation. "Fuck me, Harry, please. Need it. Need you."

  
And there was no way in hell that Harry could say no to that, not with Draco about to go up in flames in his arm, hot and wild against him. One arm kept Draco close as he kissed him until he was dizzy; his other hand went groping after the crème rinse, popping open the flip-top with his thumbnail. The stuff spurted almost obscenely over his fingers and palm, sending a desperate surge of heat from belly to balls as he slicked himself and pulled Draco on top of him. Another spurt of the stuff misfired, hitting Draco in the small of his back, but that was the general area Harry was looking for anyway. He assisted the dripping trail of it between Draco's arsecheeks, then getting a grip on himself and pressed up and into him with a desperate groan.

  
Draco arched, pressing back into his thrust, head thrown back hips and breath hitching hard. It was the most amazing thing Harry had ever seen, and he fought to keep his eyes open instead of closing them in carnal bliss. He was fucking Draco Malfoy, buried to the hilt in the heat of him, being ridden to glory, and he wanted every second of it burned into his memory.

  
Harry gripped his hip, the pressure of his fingertips dimpling the skin there, spurring Draco harder. There was no holding back, nothing hidden, only the most wanton and abandoned coupling. He took Draco in hand, squeezing, stroking, bringing him to the edge only to hold them both there, talk them back, then push for the edge together again with bucking thrusts.

  
Crying out, Draco arched again, prick swelling and stiffening in Harry's hand, hips dancing as his balls pulled up and tight. No more going back, Harry thought, as his own unstoppable surge tore through him, Draco's shot spattering over his belly and chest.

  
No more going back. Only going forward.

  
~

  
They lay there for a time in the steam and water, Draco limp and exhausted on Potter's… on Harry's chest. The moment between them as fragile as a soap bubble and as huge as Gibraltar, Harry's hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. There was no flippant comment or honed barb to flick, only the feeling of having bared something that could not be easily covered and forgotten.

  
Quietly they rose and washed off, turning off the water by mutual accord and reaching for their towels.

  
"Draco. All right?" Harry regarded him as one might something half-tamed that might well bite and claw, but cared for nonetheless.

  
He nodded. "All right. Harry."

  
Draco felt light, even as if he might float away a little, his emotions muted by endorphins and testosterone. This was going to be rocky later, but for now all he felt was open, artless, physically sated, desperately confused and very hungry. They dressed together - Harry in battered trainers, faded denims and a tatty jumper, while Draco put on shined shoes, pressed trousers, and a crisp cotton shirt.

  
"So," Harry said, carefully watching his fingers as he tied his trainers. "You like Lee Ho Fook's?"

  
Draco buttoned his waistcoat. "They do a good General Tso's Chicken."

  
Harry put the handcuffs away in his duffel and zipped it shut. "I like their dim sum platter." The silence hung awkwardly. "Do you have anywhere you need to be right now?"

  
Zipping his own duffel, Draco considered. "No. I can't say that I do."

  
Harry held the door for him, squeezing Draco's shoulder as he went through.

  
"Harry?"

  
"Hm?"

  
"Let's get it delivered." Draco paused, his next words cautious. "To my place."

  
Harry's smile crept slowly onto his face. "Right. Let's go."

  
~ Fin


End file.
